


Company He Keeps

by StripySock



Category: Fast & Furious (Movies), The Fast and the Furious (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Drunk Or High To Justify Behavior They Wanted To Do Anyway, Internalized homophobia turns to fighting as a proxy for sex (that just turns into fight sex), M/M, Post-The Fast and The Furious (2001), The Inherent Eroticism of Competition, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: Dominic Toretto knows what kind of man he is. He has no idea about Brian O'Connor.
Relationships: Brian O'Conner/Dominic Toretto
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	Company He Keeps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plastics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/gifts).



> A very happy Bulletproof! With many thanks to asuralucier for a quick, thorough and much appreciated onceover
> 
> Canon divergent from the end of the first film - Brian ends up with Dom in Mexico

There's a car. There's a garage. There's a twenty thousand dollar bounty on Dom's head, backed up with a shotgun. None of it feels as real as Brian, perched on the fender of an old Toyota, holding a wrench like it's never crossed his mind in his life to use it as a weapon. Dom half believes it, half doesn't. There's steel beneath Brian's ice-cream exterior, smooth and agreeable, all flavors to all people. 

Brian's setting down the wrench, picking up a beer, two of them, necks held together by his practiced grip, sweat on the bottle, iced up inside. "Corona?" he's saying, the heat of his hand, letting the bottle drip as he offers it. There's a matching sweat ring on his t-shirt, damp around the collar, around the pits, stain of it spreading up his back as he turns for the opener. 

Something trembles deep inside Dom. It shifts in his gut, dries his mouth until he can only reach for the beer, open his mouth and his throat to it. Let it sit cold inside him, chill for a moment until he warms up around it. Jesus,  _ Jesus  _ and it's unsaid, unheard. There's a long line of tradition inside Dom, half of it his own creation. Most of it says in clear cut terms, these are the things you can’t have, these are the things you can't be. Shit that belongs in the showers, in the dark.

He smashed half of those admonitions to death alongside the skull of one wide-eyed careless driver. The other half shouldn't hold him back, not like this. But the beer is on his tongue, down his throat, and Brian's near. The good clean smell of honest sweat, fainter scent of oil, the kind of bright wet-eyed you get after one too many drinks. Dom can see the way he's holding his tongue, odd kind of caution, the same in his hands, in the way he leans back onto the car, rather than getting into Dom's space, pushed up close. He’s still watching Dom though, like there’s nothing else in the room, peeling the label from the beer.

There are laws of hospitality. Brian's broken bread with him. Or more to the point in this day and age, he's brought a case of beer, sat by Dom's head and watched him put the detailing on the engine, close work, fine work, kind of thing only the forensic guys would see in a crash. Brian's fucked his sister, or as good as. The threads of their lives have crossed over too many times, and not enough. But Dom pushes closer. Sees the rapid pulse in Brian's neck, the flicker of his tongue across his lips, the way his hand holds onto that fifth bottle like his life might depend on it. Can almost feel the exhalation of Brian's breath on his mouth, the way his breath hitches, even from a distance. Weighs up everything he has to lose - then makes his move.

Backwards. Something in Brian's stance changes, Dom only notices it because his life used to depend on noticing the tiniest thing out of pace, flying a hundred miles an hour down the freeway. The cock of a gun, the intent set of a driver's jaw that said he'd rather take you the fuck off the road than stop. There's something like that in Brian's face, dip and swoop of some complicated emotion that Dom can't read, just watch passing across his too expressive face. Can't believe he'd ever fooled anyone. 

_ He fooled you  _ is not a new thought. It wears a groove in his mind, deep like a record. Dom raises his bottle again, wants lime, does without. 

"You working on Mrs Perez's car like that?" Dom says, no heat. He ain’t angry, not at Brian. Not even at himself. Just tired. 

Brian's smile is bright, brief, and he's still watching. Dom's used to it. Brian has drilled holes into his shoulder blades like he was getting paid for it, from the moment they met. "Buzzed, you mean," he says. "Or is the laying on of my hands not Toretto approved?"

“You could start by shifting yourself from the fender. Else you’d be the first guy I’ve ever seen who fixes a dent with their ass.” Doesn’t expect Brian to move, isn’t surprised when he doesn’t. It’s past eleven, they’re working, or at least Dom is, off the acetone strip light in the garage, and it’s too harsh, casts too many shadows to get good work done. 

Brian grins back, a flash of teeth as he tilts his head back, baring his neck as he drinks, and Dom can almost taste the skin under his mouth, strong as wishing, rocks through his reality as it does every time. “I’m her favorite,” Brian says, wiping his hand carelessly across his mouth. “Think she drives it into the fence to get a chance to bring it up here.”

“Brian, your Spanish is so fucking shitty, you don’t know what’s she really saying,” Dom says, mock patient as he sets down the bottle, picks up the rag to clean his hands. “Trust me you wouldn’t be smiling if you did.”

“I know the Spanish for hung like a horse,” Brian says. “First lesson in the book,” and he’s needling Dom, low key, the little shit. Knows he’s playing with fire, and apparently that’s half the fun for him. The deliberate push, the way from the start, he crawled under Dom’s skin and made him want to do shit he didn’t have words for. 

“But not the Spanish for good beer,” Dom says. 

“You don’t like Corona?” Brian says, finishes the last of his and sets it to the side with its fellows. 

“My Corona,” Dom corrects. “ _ Your  _ Carta Blanca. Which I notice, you’re not drinking.”

“There was Corona in the icebox,” Brian says, as though he has no idea how it got there, stands up to get the empties. Crosses to Dom and picks up the one next to him. Dom’s bottle is half full, label wilting in the heat of his hands. “You done with that?” Brian asks, Dom hands it to him, automatically. Brian knocks back a sip, unrepentant, doesn’t look away. Dom’s never wanted so bad to put a fist in someone’s face, though he’d stop short of using a wrench.

It’s cooler inside the house, Brian doesn’t turn the lights on, just swings the door shut behind them and waits. Dom can see him in the light gloom, hears the keys in Brian’s pocket. “You still want to do this,” half a question. 

“See you at six,” Dom says. “Prepare to get your ass kicked.” 

Dom used to be up early every day of the week, has got lazy here, given the chance to set his own schedule. Easier to wake when there’s a reason for it. There’s a text from Mia, about midnight her time, just saying  _ good night, love you _ . Not from her old cell, some new burner. He wonders where she hides it. It’s hard not to think of all the ways he’s let her down. That if she needs him, he can’t make it there.

Tucks the phone in his pocket, next to the keys. Brian’s not in the kitchen, but fresh coffee is, and the air outside is clear, on the edge of sunrise, little hint of it on the horizon. Sometimes, this place feels like a cage, exerts a pressure on his windpipe almost as strong as Lompoc, the knowledge of being trapped. Sometimes it feels like home. Right now it’s a little of both.

Dom can hear the throttle of a car outside, the low rumble of it carrying in the quietness. Sinks into his bones, until he can almost feel it. They fix cars now, driving is sedate, necessary, done with the aid of fakes that won’t pass too much inspection. He misses speed more than he misses LA, just a little less than he misses Mia. 

Risk is where he used to live, one heist away from death. Might go mad without it.

Coffee finished, he walks round to the garage, where Brian’s climbed out of the car and turned it off, turning to face Dom. Brian caught the sun yesterday, even with his tan, little flush of it across his face making him look like he’s still five beers in, but his eyes are clear, mouth curling back in a smile, uncomplicatedly happy in the moment like just seeing Dom makes a day better.

The rules are simple. Before the sun’s fully up, it's an acceptable amount of risk. Even if the car is a piece of shit Dom wouldn’t have looked twice at back home, even if his only competitor is Brian, who is half the reason he’s in this place at all. It’s good enough, it’s all he needs to get by. In the car, just a little souped up, the way it feels around him, it’s a halfway house for a drug he’s never shaken.

In the other car, he can see the side of Brian’s face, smile still there, like he doesn’t want it just as bad, like he hasn’t missed it as much. Eases back on the pedal, until they’re ready to race, even as the urge hits to slam it down until Brian’s left in the dust from the start. The start line is negotiable, the finishing line clear. 

The road is clear, about as far as the eye can see, warped a little by the sun, hard on the car, flat as it is. None of it matters. Just the fact that it’s empty, that Brian’s beside him, that amongst all they’ve lost, enough of it remains. 

Out of the corner of Dom’s eye, he sees Brian flip him off, knows Brian’s laughing even if he can’t hear it, as he guns past Dom to the starting point, cloud of dust round his tyres, billowing up.

Before Dom ever begins to race, he knows he’ll win. He feels like that even with the races he’s lost, from the first time he sat behind the wheel of any car at all, racing or not. Today’s no exception. Eyes on the horizon where the sun’s just beginning to properly come up on their right, not enough to blind yet. The secret is simple, it’s nothing to do with the car, everything to do with the mind.

Well and the NOS.

Looks at the clock, it’s twenty nine minutes past, watches the slow tick and the resultant alarm in his pocket in the absence of any flags. Hits it hard and fast, feels the car leap ahead, unused to the hard start. All that’s ahead of him now is the road and the sky, and it feels just a little like freedom.

Dom doesn’t even see Brian, world expanded out again, the speed still not enough, but just enough to take the edge off, power of the car docile under his hands. The race is in his pocket, even if Brian doesn’t know it. They’re within seconds of the finish line, when he feels the sharp judder of the wheel in his grasp, the stutter of the engine, momentary wrongness, mind flicking through the reasons even as he readies instinctively to brake, watches Brian sail past him almost in slow mo, every sense heightened, as he crosses the finish line on a judder, hits the brakes for real and watches Brian spin round, control almost perfect.

It feels like almost coming and then getting choked off, frustration thick in Dom’s mouth, slow coil of it in his veins, been building for so long, Dom barely remembers where it began. Last night, a month ago, years. It’s bubbling up now inside him. Gets out of the car, fuck if he’s driving that piece of shit back, Brian can shift over into the passenger seat.

Brian’s coming over, grin irrepressible, does nothing to calm Dom down. Extends his hand and Dom reluctantly takes it. He hasn’t lost in ten years. “Good race,” Brian says. There’s sweat on his face even though the sun’s only just come up. His hand’s warm, closes tight around Dom’s fingers for a second before he lets go. 

Steps back, edges up his shirt to wipe his forehead with, speaks through the material as he does so. “I know you didn’t lose. Saw it shake man.” There’s a flash of his belly, sharp cut of his hipbones, jeans barely staying on his narrow hips even with a belt.

Dom watches him, as Brian continues, like this isn’t deliberate, like this isn’t lighting a match to a gas tanker to see what’ll happen. Can’t look away from Brian, helpless, afraid for the first time since he watched Vince almost bleed out. “It’s the fuel injector issue.”

The rest of it gets cut off. Dom tackles Brian. Low, not as hard as he could, even angry, he doesn’t want to break Brian’s neck. Feels the breath knocked out of Brian’s body anyway, doesn’t know what he wants to do, Brian confused underneath him for a second. Only a second though. Brian might have two inches on him, Dom though has the advantage in everything else - weight, anger, muscle. But Brian’s no pushover, takes advantage of Dom’s momentary stillness to curl his fingers in his t-shirt and roll him, as much momentum as he can get with his back still on the ground. 

There’s dust in his mouth, on his fingers, and Brian’s fighting dirty, both of them know that if he doesn’t, Dom will have the upper hand in seconds. Brian drives his fist in with precision, isn’t pulling back, one hand still in Dom’s shirt, holding him down. There’s a foreign feeling in Dom’s gut, strange and shuddery, heart beating hard in his chest, harder than a scuffle justifies. 

“What the fuck,” Brian says, loud and clear, like he’s actually surprised. It’s the work of a second to flip him, but Dom doesn’t know what to do once he has. Brian’s struggling underneath him, eyebrows drawn down, finally a little angry, smile wiped mostly off his face.

“You could’ve said something,” Dom says, stupidly. He doesn’t know what Brian could’ve said that would’ve worked. Maybe they were always going to end up here, in the dirt, whatever route they took to get there. Brian’s stopped moving for the moment, is looking up at him, brings a hand up to shade his eyes against the rising sun.

“Mia got all the brains in your family,” Brian says deliberately, like he’s driving a thumb into the bruise of the sorest spot between them. Never did pull his punches. Doesn’t look away, like he knows it needs to be said, half the thing that’s between them, the other bit, not something Dom can take hearing. Even this is enough to bring Dom almost to his knees. 

“Do it,” Brian demands, “or get the hell off me and drive your piece of shit back.” Never had known what was good for him, wouldn’t shut up even if he did. Only one way to do it. Dom kisses him then, mid outrage, Brian’s mouth open under his, still fighting. It feels weird, out in the light, like everyone in the goddamn world could see him kiss Brian O’Connor. He’s suddenly, ridiculously aware of Brian, the way that he moves, the hitch of his breath, the strength of him. Can’t resist touching the skin under his t-shirt, thumb brush of it against Brian’s hip, just where he knows the scar sits. Shifts just enough to realize that he’s hard, has been maybe since they hit the dust, feels everything in himself struggle for a second. He pulls back, sits up. 

Dom’s on his back again, Brian’s leaning over him, still no smile. His mouth’s red though, bitten, the sight of it makes Dom’s dick throb, like now he’s admitted it, he can’t stop thinking about it. 

“Always flirting,” Dom says, the word ridiculous, stupid. Doesn’t even touch whatever the fuck it is Brian does to him, the way it cracks him open and shakes the contents of his world upside down. 

“What other fucking language do you understand?” Brian says, and he’s cracked, burnt flush of too much sun from the day before, painted across his cheekbones, fingers curled into Dom’s wrists even though he’s got as much chance of holding him down as he does of ever crossing the American border again. Blaze of blue eyes against the raw damage of his face, half sun, half Dom’s fists. He’ll bruise tomorrow.

Dom will as well, he can feel the tenderness of his jaw, the ache in his chest. “Spanish,” he says, feels everything rush out of him, sink into the hot baked ground under his back. “Little bit of Italian,” says it because he knows it’ll make Brian smile and he’s more fucked than he’d be if Tanner appeared out of the distance with half the FBI.

Brian does, reluctant, mouth twitching. “You’re a piece of work,” he says, not done yet, takes a while to make him angry, longer to get him to let it go. Stands up and the distance is unbearable until Brian extends a hand to pull Dom up as well. Doesn’t let go, strokes a thumb deliberately over his wrist.

“Going to punch me again?” Brian says, like that’s a real question. 

“Going to steal my beer?” Dom replies. 

Brian half shrugs, edge of a smile. “Yeah, probably. Think we might need to be a little drunk for this.” Makes it sound like a funeral, but Dom can feel Brian smile against his mouth, as Dom puts a hand around his neck, warm skin under his hands, tickle of Brian’s growing too long hair and tugs him in. First time in his life Dom’s ever conceded a draw.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated


End file.
